I had one of those freaky j-dub families. I was sent to school in ankle-length dresses when all the other girls were wearing jeans. I wasn't allowed to have my hair cut. Every damn homework assignment I was given, my mother and her freaky husband would object to, always managing to find something about it that went against our effing cult beliefs. I was made to turn in "alternate" assignments instead, usually in the form of rambling essays on why everybody in the class except me was going to be murdered by God any day now. I wasn't allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities, such as school newspaper.
My grades slipped after we joined the cult. I went from a straight-A student, to barely passing my classes. When one teacher noticed the abrupt change and asked me about it, I told her that my family studied the Bible and related publications for hours on end, and that my parents considered this to be a far superior education than anything I'd learn in school. Also, as a girl, as long as I could write a shopping list, I had all the education I'd ever need. Other teachers started noticing my injuries (broken fingers and toes, my stepfather's favorite form of punishment,) a busted nose, bruises, cuts, burns. Also my extreme dislike of any males (a result of the molestation I was experiencing at home.) When they started asking too many questions, my parents yanked me from school and started "home schooling" me. This consisted of making me work on my stepfather's construction site all day and cleaning and cooking and...whatever...at night. It ended when I ran away at 15. I'm so full of hurt and rage when I think of how much I missed out on while I was used as a punching bag and slave by the people who were supposed to love and protect me.
But I'm rambling once again. Concerning the bullies at school, hell, they didn't matter all that much to me. I knew how to take a punch, and I used to welcome getting into fights, as it was the only outlet I had for my rage. But no, I wouldn't thank the kids that tried to hurt me; I'd like another shot at some of them, actually. I would thank the small percentage of teachers who tried to help me in various ways, however. Thank you, Mr. Padgett, for letting me talk. Thank you, Miss Escano, for trying to give me decent clothes when I was getting teased really badly. Thank you, Ms. Boyd, for introducing me to Isaac Asimov, and I'm sorry my stepfather tried to have you fired for it. Thank you, teacher whose name I can't remember, for calling the authorities on my parents. It helped to know that some people were compassionate and kind.
